


Broken Wings

by IronWoman359



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Blood, But He Gets Better, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Like I put poor Virgil through the ringer here, Physical Abuse, and Patton gives great hugs so we'll all be ok, winged sides, winged virgil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15936500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronWoman359/pseuds/IronWoman359
Summary: The Sides all have wings, and Virgil's are enormous, beautiful white angel wings, but he doesn't see them as a blessing. As far as he's concerned, they only make him stand out as a target, and the Dark Sides clearly agree. But he’ll take their punishment a thousand times over if it means keeping his family safe.





	Broken Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this beautiful art by tumblr user  @asofterfan , check them out for more amazing art and an incredible Sanders Sides punk!AU that I adore.

Virgil hates his wings. 

He lies motionless in the bathroom. The cold from the floor seeps into his skin and the heat from his left wing throbs painfully with his heartbeat. The two sensations compete for dominance in his brain and he groans, his already splitting headache made worse by the dissonance. He reaches for the counter and drags himself up, his breath hitching in his chest as the movement sends shooting pain scurrying through his limbs. He gaze falls on the mirror, and he takes in the mess he sees behind the glass.

Not for the first time, Virgil curses whatever cruel twist of fate determined that of all the sides,  _he_ would be the one to have enormous, snow white angel wings.

It couldn’t have been Patton. Patton who was the closest thing the mindscape had to an actual angel, Patton who never had a bad word to say about anybody, Patton whose soul was pure enough to deserve wings like Virgil’s. 

It couldn’t have been Roman. Roman with his daring quests and his soaring dreams and his strength to fight off a dozen Dragon Witches. Roman who deserved wings that were as forceful and strong as he was. 

It couldn’t have been Logan. Logan who was ever constant, ever present, ever demanding of respect with his crystal clear words and sharp mind. Logan who deserved to have his voice heard, who deserved to be seen, and who deserved wings that would draw the attention of everyone in the room. 

No, it just had to be him, didn’t it? 

Virgil doesn’t want to be seen.

He reaches up and rubs at the eyeshadow that runs down his cheeks, splashing his face with water when the stubborn black trails don’t disappear. At least now he can pretend that it’s the water that made the makeup run, and not the tears that still threaten to spill over his eyelids. 

Virgil doesn’t want to be forceful. 

He wets a washcloth at the sink and tries to stretch his wings out. His right wing complies, but the left spasms in protest and he instinctively folds it up again, pressing it against his back. It’s most likely sprained, and he curses himself for letting them surprise him. He grimaces as he tends to his better wing, dabbing at the tainted feathers with the washcloth.

Virgil isn’t pure. 

_They wrestle him to the ground. He is strong, but not strong enough to fight them all, not alone, and he finds himself face down in the dirt, one arm pinned behind his back. A boot presses down between his shoulder blades and another on his wing; he struggles, but they press harder, grinding his feathers into the mud. He does not cry out. It’s what they want._

The mud leaves smears and smudges of brown through Virgil’s feathers; no amount of scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing and rinsing will get the grime to disappear completely. Virgil’s careful hands find the trickles of blood that mix with the dirt and the washcloth stains red.

_He can feel their hands on him, running across his wings and pinching, poking, tugging at his feathers. He squirms, and he hears them laughing; they like it when he struggles._ _“Such pretty feathers!” he hears one say, their voice dripping with a false sweetness. “Such a waste!” another snickers. “Why should he get them all to himself?”_ _Their voices overlap as they poke and push him, calling out what they would do if only his feathers were his._

Virgil rinses the washcloth again, but the mix of ink and mud has discolored it to a dirty gray that matches the smudges on his feathers.

_“White doesn’t suit him!”  one voice sneers, and hands are on his wings again, this time leaving a slimy, stinky residue behind. “Now they match his personality!” one says as they laugh, and shame bubbles in the pit of his stomach._

Virgil gives up on the washcloth completely and sits on the lid of the toilet, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his arms, his wings hanging uselessly at his sides.

_There is a sharp, sudden sting from where his secondary feathers meet his coverts, and he yelps in pain. A chorus of cheers ring out as the offender holds up the feather they plucked in triumph. Another sting, then another, more and more hands are clamoring at him and pulling out his feathers. Panic claws its way up Virgil’s throat and he lashes out violently, twisting and turning and flapping his wings as hard as he can. Fists close over his feathers and he jerks away, hissing in pain as his wing twists at an awkward angle. Somehow he gets free, and his legs are moving before his brain has time to think of a direction to go. A bottle is hurled towards him as he runs and it shatters against his wings, causing him to stumble and leaving shards of glass embedded in his feathers. He doesn’t stop running until he’s back in the Light Sides’ commons, and he locks himself in the bathroom, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs._

“Virgil?” 

A voice calls from behind the door and Virgil’s head snaps up.  _No, you can’t see me like this, go away…_

“Virge hon, are you in there Kiddo?” 

_No, not Patton please anyone but Patton…_

“I-I’m okay!” he calls, forcing his voice to be steady, even, but it’s raw and shaking and  _god he’s stupid, he can’t just keep his damn problems to himself…_

“Virgil, you’ve…been in there a long time,” Patton insists, unwilling to let it go. “Please…just let me help? With whatever it is?” 

Virgil hates it, but he knows that he won’t be able to clean his sprained wing on his own, and if he can’t get the wings clean then the others will definitely know, and _god_ he wishes it had been anyone but Patton to find him, but he reaches out and unlocks the bathroom door. 

Patton enters the room cautiously when he hears the click of the lock, and Virgil hunches his shoulders, refusing to meet Patton’s eyes which go wide with horror when they fall on Virgil’s bloodied, broken wings. 

“Kiddo?” Patton breathes, and Virgil shrinks back, his wings wrapping around himself like a shield. 

Patton shuts the door behind him and makes a soothing sound as he reaches gently for Virgil, his soft bat-wings drawing Virgil close and wrapping him in a gentle hug. 

“I’ve got you, Kiddo,” he murmurs, slowly stroking his fingers through Virgil’s feathers. “It’ll be alright now.” 

Virgil winces when Patton gives a small, surprised cry of pain and draws his hand away. A bright red dot oozes from a puncture on his finger, a bit of glass sticking out of the wound. Patton looks up at Virgil, his eyes growing even wider. 

“Is that…is that glass?” he whispers, and Virgil doesn’t answer, but his silence is answer enough. 

Patton doesn’t ask more questions, he just sits on the lip of the tub and pulls Virgil’s head into his lap, humming gently as he carefully picks the remaining shards of the ink bottle out of Virgil’s wings. He doesn’t ask as he runs warm water from the faucet and gently scrubs at the stains on his feathers, doesn’t ask when he dabs some antibiotic cream on his wounds, doesn’t ask when he guides him to the sink and helps him wipe away the smeared remains of makeup. 

Only when Virgil’s wings are clean and bandaged and Patton has sat him down on the couch with a mug of cocoa does his soft voice speak two simple words.

“What happened?” 

Virgil can’t meet Patton’s eyes; he stares into his cup of cocoa and shifts his weight away, but Patton gently cups his face and turns it up towards his own. Patton’s hands are soft, caring, nothing like the harsh hands that push him to the ground and pull out his feathers and before he knows it there are fresh tears in his eyes. 

His voice is nearly inaudible as he admits what happened, and Patton’s eyes go wide again, filling with tears to match his own. He wraps Virgil into another hug, his wings enveloping the two of them tightly, hiding them away from the rest of the world. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Patton whispers, and Virgil doesn’t know what to say. 

He doesn’t know how to say that if the others found out about how They treated him, then he knew that they’d do everything they could to help, but that he didn’t  _want_ them to help, because if they did they’d be at risk. 

If he’s the one being cornered and pushed down, then Patton isn’t. 

If his wings are being smeared with mud and ink, then Roman’s aren’t. 

If his feathers are being mocked and ripped out, then Logan’s won’t be.

He doesn’t know how to say how much he cares, how much he wants them safe, how he’d rather have his own wings sawn off than see a finger laid on the others, so he says nothing, burying his face in Patton’s shoulder and letting him run his fingers gently through his feathers. 

Patton seems to understand anyway, and he presses a kiss to Virgil’s hair, murmuring words of comfort, of love and acceptance and family. 

Later Roman and Logan will find the two of them curled up on the couch beneath Patton’s wings, and Patton will coax Virgil into telling the others everything. Logan will be so agitated that he hovers three feet off the ground, and Roman will draw his sword with a fire in his eyes, swearing to never let Virgil be touched by Them again. The four of them will start traveling in groups of two or three, never leaving the safe confines of their commons alone, even if only one is needed for the job in the mindscape that needs doing. The next time the Dark Sides try to corner Virgil, Roman and Logan will be with him, and they’ll all get away, but not unscathed. Virgil’s insides will churn with guilt at the bandages that they wrap around Roman’s arm and the ice pack they press to Logan’s forehead, but they will both insist that they wouldn’t trade the injuries for anything. Roman will say that it is his duty as a knight and a friend, and Logan will insist that after so many times of Virgil bearing far worse for them, he is happy to bear this and more for Virgil. Patton will make cookies and cocoa that night, and they may be a little hurt, but they are smiling and laughing with each other, and with  _him,_  and the guilt twisting knots in his stomach will loosen, ever so slightly.

Virgil hates his wings. 

But he loves his family, fiercely, fervently loves them, and even better is they return his love, with just as much vim and vigor and vicious self abandon. 

And slowly, ever so slowly, Virgil starts to think that he might deserve their love.


End file.
